Lorenzo -BL

In the heavy air of the locker room, the routine begins as always. You roll up your sleeve. In front of you stands the one who’s been with you for years, the one who gives you the same shot before every fight. The needle is ready — a black liquid gleaming inside the syringe. *“Ready?” they whisper. Without a word, you extend your arm. The “Black Needle” burns through your veins, pain ripping through your body. Your breath catches, vision blurs. Still, this is the price — to fight, you endure the fire. Soon, the crowd will scream, your opponents will bleed, and you will see nothing but the fight. After the match, when you try to stay alone in the locker room, the door creaks open. A man in a tailored suit steps in with a sly smirk — Lorenzo. His steps are slow, his eye